


Changing Seasons

by MistressGalahat



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce wants to see his son, Established Relationship, F/M, First Meetings, Fury ain't having it, Holidays, M/M, New York City, Stiles just wants his Reese's, vacation gone wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 21:25:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9460979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressGalahat/pseuds/MistressGalahat
Summary: Stiles seriously needed that awesome vacation in New York. It wasn't his fault there was a werewolf interfering with his shopping, and somehow getting caught up in shady government business. Meeting his father wasn't on the list of things to do in NYC either.





	

**Author's Note:**

> As far as I recall, I only went over this once after writing, so... enjoy?

Bruce Banner is a man of patience.

He has learned it over a course of several tough situations, and it has come in handy more than once. He has a good degree, somewhat friendly teammates, and a nice place to stay. Food is good, money isn’t plenty, but it’s not exactly a small amount either.

The one thing he wishes he could change, is the one thing that can’t. It’s the green monster thrumming inside of him and knocking him sideways whenever he loses that small piece of himself that contains his patience. It’s the thing that stops him from contacting Claudia after all those years of having left her behind.

At first he had considered her letter to be a cruel joke. A prank that someone might have put her up to, but then he can’t help but remember the way her smile lit up the room, how her hair flowed to her waist like a carefree wave, and above all he remembers her eyes and the spark they carried. Claudia would never lie about Bruce being a father, no matter how much he might wish for it to be just so.

He thinks about contacting her, but only once. Her letter made it clear that after their brief stint that got her pregnant, Claudia had no intention of seeing Bruce Banner again. She had found a good man, someone who didn’t care if the child she was carrying was his or not, and she begged him not to seek her out. She wants a new life, and it’s not something she wants Bruce to be any part of.

At first he had thought he should protest. Because he had a kid out there - out in the real world. But he’s also a scientist, and he knows that with both him and Claudia being young and foolish at the time of the act, he doesn’t have much to offer. So he lets them be. Tries very hard not to think of the first (and last) pictures of his son that gets mailed to him.

Claudia and John look happy in the photo, holding a little baby boy that Bruce feels a connection to, despite never having met. He doesn’t even know if the man raising his son is aware of who the father is, but when he sends a letter back to Claudia and tells her thank you, wishes all of them happy and long lives, he doesn’t get a reply. He didn’t expect one, but he would have liked to know if his son knew he existed, or if Claudia and her husband had decided to keep their cards close to their chest and not let him know.

Despite all of those insecurities and strange dreams of one day meeting his son face to face, the decision is ripped from his hands all together in the span of a few days. He doesn’t want to risk hulking out when being anywhere near his family, and Claudia has long since stopped responding to any letters he might have sent her way. He doesn’t hear from her, not even after the Hulk has been shown on television and his name dragged through the press. He shrugs it off, the one person who might have anything to fear, and he slowly pushes Claudia and his son out of his mind.

Bruce throws himself back into work. Enjoys the camaraderie of the Avengers and the disguised looks from Fury whenever the topic falls back on family. The man doesn’t ever bring up the son that Bruce has never met, but he doesn’t doubt that Fury knows. (He wonders if Natasha knows. Coulson might, but he doesn’t exactly know what warrants SHIELD’s attention).

So he continues to banter with Clint, throws little shared glances with Natasha, talks to Steve about how the world changes, reminds Thor what is proper etiquette on Midgard, and crawls down to Tony’s garage of wonderful technology to geek out. It’s nice, the uncomplicated mess that the whole Avengers gang are, even when they have to save the world now and again.

Except the world implodes one fine morning, without prior warning. The sky is blue, the birds are chirping away like the worst of gossips, but the sun isn’t shining. That shouldn’t be a problem, but it rubs Bruce the wrong way from the minute he wakes up, and the feeling only intensifies when the Avengers get called away from breakfast to meet at a SHIELD base. Those meetings never mean anything good, and when he tries to softly push both Clint and Natasha into telling the rest of them what it’s all about, they are surprisingly closed off.

Steve has been left in the dark too, which is a testament to how badly this could all go. Steve’s the leader, and the rest of them are entirely okay with it, Tony being the only exception as always, so it makes no sense not to inform him on what they are going to be dealing with. It leaves the drive quiet and subdued in an uncomfortable fashion. Tony is fidgeting around like prepubescent teen, and Bruce has to take a few calming breaths lest he break the car or tear out a seat. He’s on edge before the meeting, and if Bruce is already struggling, he can’t imagine himself taking whatever Fury throws at them with any sort of ease. Maybe letting the Other Guy throw the people at SHIELD around for a bit might help him calm down - but he takes another breath, deeper this time, and tells himself that it won’t do anyone any good.

There’s a distinct metallic tang in the air as they arrive, or, Bruce thinks, it might be that he has chewed his cheek into bleeding again. It’s a habit that got started too soon, and isn’t any closer to stopping whenever a particular stressful situation occurs. Bruce files away this one in his brain as stressful, at least until they meet up with whatever SHIELD person they are supposed to see anyway.

The base is still in New York, and they aren’t too far away from the Tower. The best thing about it, is that they aren’t flying with the Helicarrier and confining Bruce to a small space like the idiots they were during the battle of New York.

“You coming?” Asks Tony, and it takes Bruce a second too long to realise they are being led away by a small fry agent drawing them deeper into the building. He snaps out of it quickly, more than willing to stay with the group than get left behind in a facility that would most likely take him apart if he weren’t on their side. (They still might, but Bruce clings to the hope that they won’t, even if it seems futile and childish of him). It doesn’t help his gut feeling fade away, and the crawling in his skin only gets worse with every step.

Their group is herded into a room, big enough for a board meeting, but small enough that they will still be squished a bit tighter together than most of them would prefer, Bruce included. Thor takes a shine to the whiteboard, and Tony takes it upon himself to entertain the Norse God while they wait. Steve leans towards them, one ear on them just in case, while his body language is all but screaming unease at Natasha and Clint. Bruce takes a seat in one of the chairs, opting to keep his interest in the whole case as low as possible until they get it solved. It doesn’t stop him from glancing between Tony animatedly slapping at the whiteboard, to Steve’s disapproving glances at the door.

The silence doesn’t fall upon them until it’s agent Coulson who opens the door and enters with a stack of papers in his hands. “Take a seat,” he says to the Avengers who are still standing, and he sits across from Bruce with a frown to his otherwise stoic face. “I would prefer for this conversation to take place with only Dr Banner, but I guess that is too much to ask for, am I correct?”

Bruce sits a bit straighter at those words, and it’s his turn to frown. Tony opens his mouth to make a sarcastic comment or quip, but Bruce cuts him off. “Whatever you want to say to me, you can say to the rest of the people in this room. They’re family.” And he means it. Every single member of the team is important to him, because they don’t care about the Other Guy, and will still tease him mercilessly if he somehow manages to burn the pizza without fear of being Hulk smashed.

Agent Coulson’s smile grows strained at his words, and Bruce only gets a second to ponder what he might have said wrong. “Family,” says Coulson. “Is the reason that you are in this room right now, Dr Banner.” Coulson pulls out a paper from his large stack. It’s a picture, a sort of mugshot, to be precise. It’s a kid that stares up at him, eyes defiant and slightly angry if the taught skin is to be believed.

It only takes Bruce a second to place him, and all breath leaves his body instantly at the sight of his  _ son _ looking so grown up. Had it really been so many years since Claudia sent those pictures to him? Had so much time passed without him doing anything about it? The rest of the Avengers shuffle behind him to catch a glimpse of the photo, Natasha and Clint the only two not clamoring to know who the kid in the photo is. (That solves that question, though, because clearly both of his teammates know of his son). “What about him?” Asks Bruce, because he honestly doesn’t know what else to ask.

Coulson clears his throat, and the small chatter in the room falls silent again. The agent nearly looks pained at his next words, and Bruce’s gut clenches again. “Dr Banner, you have to understand that he was in a situation involving a SHIELD case late last night, and was brought to this facility in hopes of learning how much he knew. He refused to give his name, and it wasn’t until the face recognition software came through that we realised who he was; Genim ‘Stiles’ Stilinski, aged eighteen from Beacon Hills, CA.”

Bruce is surprised to find that the Other Guy is oddly calm at this new information, but then it clicks for him, and he has to swallow a hasty breath. “Agent Coulson, are you telling me that my son is in this building, at this very moment?” Bruce hears Tony’s surprised cough at his words, but in that moment the doctor can’t bring himself to care all that much about his teammates’ reactions. Thor is surprisingly quiet on the matter, and all Steve does is stare at him as though he is an alien who has just made some obscure Star Trek reference. In some weird way, he most likely did, but all Bruce can think of is that  _ his son _ is in the same building as him.

“Dr Banner, I’m going to have to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay?” Coulson asks it as quietly as he can, calm and collected as ever, and Bruce just nods, dumbfounded. He is entirely too weirded out by the whole scenario to comprehend what is really happening, but Bruce is okay with that. He’s not so sure he can handle reality at the moment, so detachment of the situation seems like the best way to deal with it.

“Good, let’s start off with a few easy questions. Were you aware that your son was in New York until now?” Bruce shakes his head no, and Coulson plunges on. “Do you have any idea why your son would be in New York?”

“No,” says Bruce, and he hates how his voice sounds so small and frightened. Never in a million years would he have expected that this would be the way he came to meet his son. Christ, he had never really thought he would be this  _ close  _ to his son. Claudia had made it clear that he wasn’t welcome, and he had respected her wishes. “Is he with his parents in New York? Is Claudia or her husband with him?” Bruce can’t help the question as it slips out. There’s some part of him that wants to make sure the kid is safe, even if Bruce doesn’t know him. Even if he didn’t even know his son preferred to be called Stiles until a government agent was the one to tell him.

Coulson flips some more papers, his eyes averting Bruce’s. “I take it you aren’t aware that Claudia Stilinski passed away several years ago.” The way Coulson says it is nonchalant, but Bruce still feels the metaphoric bottom of the chair fall out from under him. For a short second, he can’t breathe and the light is too sharp. He wants to be angry, wants to blame Claudia’s husband for never letting him know. Mad at Claudia for never letting him be part of a life he would have gladly given a chance. Mad at himself for never seeking her out like he wanted to.

“I wasn’t,” he says instead of throwing a chair at the nearest breakable surface and letting the Other Guy take over. “She only sent me a picture right after - right after he was born and that was it. I tried to contact her, but she didn’t want me to have anything to do with them. So I let her be.” The words sounds tame and bland as he speaks them, and a part of him wishes he had done more to keep Claudia with him.

Steve is quiet beside him, and Bruce is glad that the older man poses the question instead of him. He doesn’t trust himself not to throw something. “How did she come to pass?” Steve is as polite as ever, and it makes Bruce calm down enough that he doesn’t feel as green as before. He’s glad that Tony is silent, just for once, and that he has the support of his team, even if they weren’t aware that he had a son out in the world. Or, at least, most of them hadn’t been aware.

Coulson shifts his gaze between Bruce and Steve, finally settling back on Bruce before he clears his throat with an uncomfortable cough. It’s loud in the room, but Bruce doesn’t flinch. “According to Claudia Stilinski’s medical record, she suffered from frontotemporal dementia. Your son was with her when she passed in 2004, while her husband, the current Sheriff of Beacon Hills was on duty at the time of her death.” Bruce keeps mum on the subject, preferring not to interrupt while Coulson spills the beans of a bag he hadn’t known had existed. “A short while ago, Stiles was diagnosed with the same illness as his mother, but then a few months after the diagnosis, he showed no signs of it. His medical record is quite the mess, but it does strike us as odd that someone could be wrongly diagnosed with frontotemporal dementia when having been exposed to its symptoms previously.”

Bruce’s mouth is dry, and even though there is both water and cups on the table, he doesn’t dive for it. The situation is a bit more strained and professional than what he hoped this day would be like, but most all, Bruce is panicking on the inside. “Hang on a second, Coulson, my son had the same disease as Claudia? Frontotemporal dementia, are you absolutely sure?”

“That’s what his record states. Miracle cure, or a higher power, I don’t know.”

It’s Tony who butts into the conversation next, and he voices Bruce’s exact thoughts that aren’t willing to leave his mouth. “Excuse me Mr Suit & Tie, but as far as I know there hasn’t ever been a hundred percent successful medical treatment of frontotemporal dementia. That kind of science doesn’t happen unless it’s illegal, and then it’s usually in government facilities and not in some small neck town in California.” Science brothers for life - Bruce is pretty sure Tony has earned that status until the day one of them dies.

Coulson doesn’t appear particularly surprised by Tony’s outburst, and a quick skim of his papers has him back to shaking his head at all of them. “I don’t know all of the answers to the universe, Mr Stark, and according to Mr Stilinski’s medical record, this is one of those mysteries that will probably never be solved.” There’s the spark of a challenge brimming in Tony’s eyes in the aftermath of Coulson’s words, and Bruce is not looking forward to the sort of questioning his son might get subjected to if he ever meets Tony.

In a way he finds himself wanting that to happen, and another, larger part of him wants to drag his son far away from all of the madness that is the Avengers and SHIELD. Although he might be a little too late for that, according to Coulson. “Coulson, what sort of incident was my son involved in that warranted SHIELD’s attention?” Because that appears to remain the question, and Phil, Son of Coul, looks almost physically pained at the good doctor’s question.

“There was a robbery involving a presumed inhuman - someone our agents had been staking out for weeks. They were too far away to intervene when the robbery went down, but by the time they had caught up to the suspect in an alleyway, your son had him on the ground with a dagger in one hand and a pack of Reese’s Cups in the other.” Thor looked about ready to boom out a thunderous laughter, but Bruce couldn’t see the fun of the situation. “What I am trying to get to, is the fact that your son who - despite minor lapses in judgement according to a restraining order - took down an inhuman and proceeded to try and talk himself out of going with SHIELD. He has exuded confidence in his skills as a liar, has a way with words, is clearly accustomed to fighting, and did not, in fact, appear bothered that he had decided to chase down an inhuman without hesitation. So I was hoping, Dr Banner, that you could be the one to shine some light on this peculiar situation.”

Of the wildest scenario Bruce might have been able to conjure up as he woke up in the morning, this one wasn’t a possible thing to happen in any way, shape or form. And all he could think of was; what the Hell had Claudia let their son get away with?

“Can I see him?” He asks out loud instead.

 

Stiles was having  _ the _ single most best day of his life.

Getting a vacation was awesome. Spending it with part of the pack was even better. Sure, Scott with all of his Alpha responsibilities couldn’t leave Beacon Hills, but at least Derek, Jackson and Lydia were able to go on a getaway to New York. The bustling city was the complete opposite of Beacon Hills, at least when it came to the whole supernatural business. The city was busy, yes, but it was so slow compared to back home that it was exactly what they needed. And it didn’t hurt that Jackson and Derek had decided to pay for most of the trip by themselves. (That left more cash for some Stiles related fun, and who was he to look a gift horse in the mouth?)

The hotel was amazing and spacious, pool area and all. The free wifi allowed them to call back and check up on the pack quite regularly, just in case some crazy psycho decided to visit and they were needed back home. It was one of two conditions that Scott had set before they took the flight out of Beacon County. Don’t go back to Beacon Hills before the week was up unless they were neck deep in dirt back home; and the second condition, that they at least try to have fun and not worry their eyebrows off. The exact two things Stiles could totally do. Not to mention, they all needed a break, and if this kind of rotation scheme was how they could make it work, then he would take it, even if he did have to share breathing space with Jackson the Jerk.

Which was one of the reasons Stiles had been on his way out to get snacks and drinks for an early night in at the hotel. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes, tops,” Stiles had said and kissed the top of Derek’s head before he slipped out of their shared hotel room with a wink. Of course that schedule got messed up when the store he was buying Reese’s Cups at turned out to be the best place for a werewolf to stage a robbery.

“For fuck’s sake,” mumbles Stiles as he crouches behind a row of cereal products. His fingers fiddle with the handle of the dagger he keeps in his boots, but he knows he can’t just stab a werewolf in the thigh in the middle of New York. Too many people, and no connections to help him dispose of the body properly. Not to mention the amount of witnesses he would rather not have to deal with. So he waits, crouched down and stiff while the frantic wolf waves a gun in the face of the cashier.

Stiles might not be the most patient person out there, but he knows how to adapt his game plan and roll with the situation. Which is why it’s so much easier for him to remain calm as the werewolf stutters out a threat. “Just hand over the money or I’ll pull the trigger, I swear to God!” Anyone else in his situation (or just generally normal people, like the other customers in the store) would probably wet their pants. But Stiles hears the lilting jitter in the man’s voice, the slight quiver that betrays a confident Beta or Alpha. Because Omegas might be desperate, but they weren’t the best planners out there, Stiles was sure of it.

So he takes the Reese’s Cups in one hand and foregoes the drinks as he slinks out of the door as soon as the werewolf bolts with a tiny wad of cash in his sweaty palm. (Honestly though, who robs a convenience store when practically no one uses cash anymore? How big is the payoff for a desperate wolf when he’d get more out of stealing actual valuables?) There are no protests about Stiles’ lack of payment, and he promises himself - and mentally his dad - that he’ll return to the shop and drop off the cash for the candy as soon as he deals with the renegade werewolf.

He should probably call Derek and alert him that he’s going to brawl with a werewolf, but he figures it’s not going to take too long, and that it’ll make for an interesting story when he gets back to the hotel.

His steps are near silent as he tails the wolf through the street until the scruffy looking man sidesteps into an alley and Stiles follows without hesitation. It’s not his first run in while on his own, and he knows it most likely won’t be his last. The guy is wary, though, keeps looking over his shoulder like he caught a whiff of something he didn’t like. It results in Stiles inspecting his stolen pack of Reese’s Cups like they are God’s gift to mankind, which they ultimately are, despite Derek and the rest of the Pack’s protests. Still, it makes Stiles on edge that the guy thinks he is being followed, and it takes him a second longer than he likes to come to the conclusion that the guy isn’t worried about  _ him _ following.

The idea that there might be hunters out to get the werewolf is a bit unsettling, but not an entirely new concept. Stiles is confident enough that he can pass off as a Hunter himself, if he has to act the part. (He has spend enough time with Chris Argent, and Allison, when she was still alive, to know how to pose as a giant douchebag who thinks other Hunters stole his kill). Not that Stiles was planning to kill the guy right now, just rough him up a bit. Remind him that there are better ways to deal with shit than to rob convenience stores in New York.

“Hey buddy,” Stiles calls out when he is certain they are the only two people in the grimy alley. The man turns, eyes wild and angry, but also scared. Stiles can get behind that, he really can, except it doesn’t diminish the severity of the situation. “It wasn’t the smartest thing of you to do, ya’ know, robbing a store and all. I think you can do better than that, if you want to avoid Hunters.” Stiles says it with a shrug, the dagger having found its way into his right hand, concealed by the sleeves of his red hoodie.

“What?” Says the guy, like the eloquent Shakespearean type that he obviously is, and Stiles has to remind himself that he is dealing with a frightened wolf and can’t possibly kill someone by rolling his eyes too much at them. He still rolls his eyes, though, because his name is Stiles and he can’t really help it. Jackson usually calls it an idiotic tic, and Stiles responds by calling him a prick. In a way, Stiles secretly hopes that the guy is an actual closet Shakespeare lover, but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up.

“You know, you should totally smile a bit more. Show off those pearly whites and let people know how swell of a guy you can be. Does wonders for your confidence, I can tell you that.” Stiles can’t help himself as his mouth runs off again. He doesn’t know the backstory to this guy, just that he appears to be an Omega with money issues. The least Stiles can do is give him a tip on how to get a more positive outlook on an increasingly negative world of horror and Hunters. And other supernatural species that mainly want to maim and kill you, in that exact order.

The guy opens his mouth, ready to talk back and then closes it again with an audible snap of his jaw. “Are you with them?” He asks, and Stiles does the most ordinary thing in that situation and responds with a classic.

“Huh?” Stiles  _ knows _ there are no people behind him, and he knows that the alley is at least a remote enough of a location that there shouldn’t be anyone near them. At least not that Stiles knows of, and he likes to believe that he knows a lot. (Or at least a few things. Lydia is the wandering Wikipidea of knowledge, not him). “Look, dude, I’m not a Hunter if that’s what you’re trying to get at.”

The bloke doesn’t look any better as Stiles says that, if anything, the guy looks  _ worse _ after he brings Hunters into the conversation. Which is weird, because aren’t those the ones the guy might be afraid of?

“How do I know you’re not one of them? They won’t leave me alone!”

And okay, maybe the werewolf is a bit more delirious than Stiles would have liked, but it’s cool, he can work with that. At least the stress means that the guy starts halfway shifting, and Stiles is certain that he is dealing with an omega werewolf. (Blue eyes isn’t exactly the most comfortable sight, but beggars n’ choosers, right?) ‘Sides, who knows, the guy could have administered a mercy kill for all he knows. “I really don’t know who you’re talking about, but how about you tell me what’s wrong and maybe I can help you out?”

The werewolf growls, teeth sharpening a bit longer than Stiles is comfortable with when not dealing with one of the Pack’s own members. “Go away!” The guy snarls, and throws himself at Stiles. He is surprisingly fast, and Stiles wobbles to the left in a quick scurry of a dodge. There’s no finesse behind the attack, and it seems more pathetic than threatening, even if a werewolf did just try to hurt him. Stiles has had worse.

“Dude, really? I offer you help and you decide to go all Captain nom-nom on me? I’m a person, not mein chow from whatever local joint you go to.” Banter and sarcasm is still his best defensive mechanism, and Stiles knows for sure that he won’t ever get over it. Sure, training and regular life or death combat has helped shape him into a better and more competent fighter, but old habits are hard to break. And they usually serve to distract his attackers just a little bit.

The growling gets louder, and Stiles huffs out a breath of air. New York isn’t cold, but it’s not California, and the werewolves are apparently a lot more stupid here as well. The werewolf let’s out a snort of anger, face fully shifting into a Beta form, and he charges again, howl on his lips and frustration in his brows. There’s not much more time for talk, so Stiles decides to forego the pleasantries and the diplomatic solutions as he dives with the dagger up his sleeve. The weight is comfortable in his grip, and the package of sugary goodness in his other hand doesn’t throw him as much off balance as it used to.

He waits until the guy throws himself at him again, and Stiles uses the momentum and the strength of the other to hurl him at the brick wall. The man crashes into the rough building structure, and Stiles has him on the ground before he can clutch his bloody nose and yell obscenities at the Spark. Stiles keeps a foot on the squirming and downed werewolf as he plants the dagger near the other guy’s face. The shifted werewolf stills momentarily. Stiles is pretty sure it’s only because his dagger smells of wolfsbane and other wolves. And there may or may not be a fair bit of a bloodied scent clinging to the metal, but Stiles can’t seem to get it out no matter how hard he tries. (Or so Derek and the rest of the wolves in the Pack tells him time and time again).

There’s the familiar click of a gun being cocked behind him, and Stiles berates himself how he didn’t notice three suited guys entering the alley. They don’t look particularly surprised by the werewolf, but then again, their douchebag sunglasses at night could fool just about anyone without x-ray vision. And Stiles doesn’t have x-ray vision. (Yet).

“Sir, drop the knife and step away from the suspect.” Stiles wants to protest, he really, really does, but the he notices that two of the guns are trained on  _ him _ and not the werewolf, only the last guy pointing a deadly weapon at the obviously dangerous supernatural creature.

“Hey there, what’s up?” Stiles doesn’t drop the dagger, but he does raise his hands above his head, weapon and Reese’s in hand. He doesn’t move his foot from the werewolf either, but despite the lack of a knife threatening to pierce his jugular, the guy is surprisingly compliant. His face is contorted with fright, however, and Stiles wonders if he might have interfered with something that is way above his skill level. At least he thinks that might be the case, given the whole MIB vibes that the suit and tie people give off.

He really should have called Derek when he had the chance.

Because now that option doesn’t present itself, and they take his phone, his dagger - heck, even his Reese’s Cups - and then they throw him in a small cell next to the werewolf. Judging by the distance they drove in a car while Stiles was momentarily blindfolded with a black bag, they are still somewhere in New York. There are no windows, and no nothing to help him figure out where they took him. It’s cold, though, so he surmises being underground seems like a plausible possibility.

The werewolf is knocked out hard, but he’s still breathing, so Stiles counts that as a win. At least that means his captors most likely aren’t going to kill him off straight away, and that might buy enough time for Derek, Lydia and Jackson to realise he is missing. (It sucks, though. He knows he’ll never hear the end of it if they do bust him out. And Derek probably won’t let him out of his sight again for the next two months as some sort of punishment).

So he knocks loudly on the cell door and bangs the little metal bowl, with some meager sort of food in it, against the other metal leg of the cot. He yells loudly and complains, the way he usually does it.

It’s that behaviour that lands him in an interrogation room, all sorts of questions getting hurled in his face. But Stiles is quiet, because now there are people he can observe and pick apart without letting anything slip out of him. They are patient with him - tries to make him give his name, asks how he found himself in such a peculiar situation and how the candy fits into the picture. In the end, they don’t learn anything from him, and Stiles is insanely proud of himself. On the other hand, he learns quite a bit from the MIB interrogator.

Of all the things his captors don’t know, it appears that the existence of werewolves is one of them. They keep addressing the knocked out guy as an ‘inhuman’ of some sort, but Stiles knows a werewolf when he sees one. And they apparently have some sort of software that can possibly scan his face and give them his name. Stiles shrugs it off when they mention it to him, because if they don’t work for his identity, then where would all of his fun go?

Except the fun disappears quite quickly, and quite dreadfully, when his previous interrogators walk out and the whole Avengers squad filters into the small room. Stiles can’t help but gape, because, yeah, he’s heard about the Avengers, but that shouldn’t mean that they can just waltz in and take over an interrogation like it’s hostile territory. Besides, Stiles doesn’t trust himself enough to know whether he’s been drugged or not. He kinda hopes that that’s the case.

 

Agent Coulson leads them down a narrow and winding corridor, but Bruce doesn’t feel claustrophobic. The entire team has insisted on following along - that he shouldn’t meet his son on his own, if the kid is so deeply involved with the case as SHIELD suspects him to be. In a way, Bruce is just glad to have friends by his side when he finally meets the son he always knew he had. (It’s a weird thought to have, but it has always been hiding away in some part of Bruce’s brain).

“He’s in there?” Asks Bruce with a general wave of a hand when Coulson comes to a stop. It’s an interrogation room, he knows that much, but the fact that his son is on the other side of the door is what’s getting to him. Steve rests a large, warm hand on his shoulder and the gentle pressure is enough to remind him that he isn’t going in alone.

“Dr Banner, please know that we are allowing you access to a suspect because he is your son. You are the best option SHIELD has at the moment to extract information from him, so please try to stick to the problem at hand.” Coulson isn’t apologetic with his words, and while Steve glares at the agent for his wording, they make something in Bruce click. A resolve, of sort, to get to the bottom of whatever mess his son is in.

“Okay,” he says, and takes a deep breath. For a second, Bruce thinks he might talk a bit more to Coulson, if only to draw out the inevitable for a little while longer. He decides against it, and the door opens willingly under his hands.

Bruce doesn’t look at his son, but nods to the two agents who exit the interrogation room. The rest of the Avengers filter in behind him, and Bruce forces a deep breath down his chest and out of his nose. Someone closes the door behind them, he thinks it’s Thor, if the slam of noise is anything to go by, but he is more occupied with raising his head and properly  _ look _ at his son.

He has Bruce’s eyes; brown, but with Claudia’s brittle and defiant attitude shining in them. His moles and jawline is entirely his mother as well, but Bruce can see himself in that stubborn glare. The unruly hair, although a bit straighter than his own, is the same shade of dark that he had in his younger days. The nose is somewhat of a mix between his own and Claudia’s, but Bruce isn’t doubting anything as he just stares at his son.

Someone pushes him down in a chair (Steve, maybe, he seems to be the most levelheaded of them in that moment), and then he is sitting and keeping eye contact with his son. With Stiles. (With Claudia).

Thor, Natasha, Clint and Tony all remain standing, but Steve takes the only open seat next to Bruce, his face guarded while all Bruce can do is make sure his jaw doesn’t hit the floor. He had dreamt that maybe, one day, he’d be able to meet Stiles, or maybe just see him from afar. Just to see what he looks like, and if he’s healthy. If he had a good life - something that Bruce wouldn’t have been able to give him.

But sitting across Stiles stirs something green in Bruce as well. No matter how long ago Claudia might have passed, he cannot for the life of him fathom how Stiles could have ended up being able to take down an inhuman like it’s nothing special. Part of Bruce wants to blame Claudia, or perhaps even her husband, the Sheriff, but another, more prominent, part of himself knows that he doesn’t have any room to judge. He could have fought harder than he did, could have tried to rekindle what he had had with Claudia, but instead he chose his research and then he became a giant monster with anger issues.

Seeing that Bruce is clearly too awed by his son, Steve clears his throat and takes the lead, ever the Captain that his names prescribes him to be. (Bruce is secretly relieved, but he focuses on breathing and listening to words).

“Is your name Genim ‘Stiles’ Stilinski?” Asks Steve, and if the kid is surprised by the fact that they know, he doesn’t let it show. Stiles does sit up straighter, except that Bruce has been around the Avengers for long enough to know that it’s a basic reaction for anyone to have. Heck, enough rookies in SHIELD tended to shy away from them, so it wasn’t that uncommon.

Stiles shrugs, and only then does Bruce notice the jingling chain that lets him know Stiles is currently handcuffed to the table like a common criminal. “I didn’t know the Avengers became interrogators. Does the government know about this?” For someone who should very well be beyond awed at being in same room as the Avengers, Stiles is taking it all in stride, a smirk on his face and eyes sharp.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Says Steve, a slight glare contorting his face.

“You didn’t answer mine. Quid pro quo.”

The kid is good, Bruce has to admit. He severely hopes that it comes from the fact that Claudia’s husband is a Sheriff, but a part of him knows that it’s most likely not the case. Bruce is also sure that if Stiles could, he would be leaning precariously on the wobbling plastic chair just to give off an air of nonchalance, but the handcuffs doesn’t provide him with that much luxury.

Steve draws out an exaggerated sigh. “We aren’t normally the ones to interrogate, no, but you are a special case Genim. Or may I call you Stiles?” Always the ever polite one, that Captain America. Bruce is more surprised by himself that he hasn’t blurted out a ton of words as soon as he saw Stiles. He was nearly sure that’s what Tony and Thor’s bet was about. (Not that they knew that he knew about that, but they weren’t exactly subtle on the way down to interrogation).

“Stiles,” says the kid with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Genim was before Mum died.” And if that doesn’t kill whatever Steve was about to say, Bruce doesn’t know what would. Steve is a sucker for a good sob story, and by the looks of it, Stiles already has him pegged and begun tearing down the Captain’s walls. It’s manipulative, devious, and almost Tony like behaviour. Bruce is weirdly proud, and he vows to himself to never let Stiles and Tony be alone together in a room. (If he did, world domination might be the only thing to come out of it alive).

“Why are you in New York?” Bruce asks the question before he can stop himself. Stiles shifts his gaze between him and Steve, as if he can’t decide who is the leader and who is the follower. (Bruce files that information away for later, because who in their right mind tries to differentiate who has the command at the given time?) Stiles turns to Bruce with a scowl on his face, brows furrowed. The glare is piercing and Bruce shivers in his seat.

“Vacation.” Says Stiles. “My turn… Why are the Avengers interviewing little old me? Not like I actually did anything wrong.”

Steve responds to that first, a gasp of indignation following his agape mouth. “Nothing wrong? As far as agent Coulson explained the situation to us, you held a man at knife point and threatened him!” Stiles does nothing at the information he is being given, but an eyebrow does raise itself at Steve’s outburst.

“Agent Coulson? Don’t think I’ve met the guy.”

So far, Bruce can tell that his son is a sarcastic little guy, and he finds himself laughing on the inside at Stiles’ rather abrupt comebacks. The young teen doesn’t appear to be pondering how to answer any of Steve’s questions, instead choosing to mull over something in his head that Bruce has no way of knowing what is about. “I thought you said this would be a quid pro quo, Stiles.”

Stiles snaps out of whatever little reverie he is in, and leans forward on the table until his chin hits the cold surface of it. “I asked a question, you guys didn’t answer, so why should I give up information? I do believe that’s the way quid pro quo works, Dr Banner.”

And dammit if the kid isn’t right about that, they did avoid the question of exactly why the Avengers are the ones to interrogate him. Bruce takes another deep breath, because for the life of him he isn’t ready to answer that question. (Although the words does have the effect of turning every single head in the room towards Bruce, and damn if his teammates weren’t the exact opposite of subtle when he actually needed them to be). “How about you ask another question and we answer that instead? I, for one, am not quite ready to disclose the answer as to why we’re in this room with you just yet.” Although Bruce does get it confirmed that Claudia obviously never disclosed who Stiles’ real father is - he doesn’t know if that is working for or against him at the moment, though.

Stiles huffs and makes a motion to cross his arms, but at the last minute appears to think the better of it, in order to avoid straining his wrists more than necessary. “Fine,” and Bruce’s son pouts. He  _ pouts _ ! “How about… To whom does this fine institution belong to? I’d really like to get to know my kidnappers before I try to escape.” Stiles says it freely and ends it with a little laugh, but Bruce doesn’t let it go unseen how Natasha and Clint stiffen their posture at his mocking words. Stiles believes enough in himself to be able to escape, and the two SHIELD assets are clearly trying to square themselves off and let him know that they won’t let him do that.

“You are currently in SHIELD custody.” It’s Natasha who answers, her shoulders hunched. Stiles just whistles low, and Bruce gets the feeling that he would slow clap if his position had allowed it.

“SHIELD, huh? That’s actually pretty cool. Don’t know why they would grab me, though. Didn’t exactly seem SHIELD relevant at the time.”

“According to the agents on the scene, it was indeed SHIELD relevant.” She sneers. “How did you manage to take down the inhuman so quickly?” Bruce should have been able to guess that Natasha’s question would somehow involve the fact that his son took down an inhuman without any big show of it. Lord knows Phil and his merry little band of agents had enough trouble on a day to day basis that she would be offended on their behalf.

Stiles doesn’t answer straight away, though, and he looks genuinely confused. “Inhuman? Is that what you call them? I mean, it’s inclusive and not speciesist I guess, but how do you differentiate between different kinds if you just pile them all into one category?”

Bruce nearly falls down his chair, and Tony gasps out loud. “Speciesist?” He hears Tony squeak, and Bruce is tempted to echo that statement, because honestly, how does anyone react to that.

Natasha is quick to recover, although Clint is looking a bit confused and upset. “Elaborate,  _ Stiles _ . How is calling them inhumans speciesist when they are human?”

Stiles laughs. An honest to God bellow that sounds alot louder in a tiny interrogation room that it probably did on a regular basis. “If that guy is human,” he huffs out between pieces of air. “Then I’m a thousand year old dragon with a red mohawk.”

“Why? What’s so funny?” Tony is the one who cracks under pressure first, because with him he is always entirely too curious for his own good. He does deserve the stinkeye Natasha throws in his direction, though, but at least it stops Bruce from having to pose the same question and being on the receiving end of her wrath.

There’s a short break in Stiles’ laughter until it dies out completely when he realises that none of them genuinely knows  _ why _ he had been laughing. “Uh,” he says, and sweat erupts on his brow while his face twist into an expression of ‘Holy shit, I think I stepped in it big time now, and someone higher up is going to eat me alive for slipping up.’ The Avengers waits patiently for Stiles to stop his internal mini freakout, Natasha dangerously close to whipping out a pointed weapon to speed up the process by a few seconds. “You really have no idea, do you?”

Steve is the adult one in their situation, and he gives a look that reminds Bruce of a stern parent who caught their kid with hands in the cookie jar. “No, we do not. If you would care to elaborate, I think we would all much appreciate it.”

For the first time since they entered the room, Stiles is scared and sweat is starting to provide a shine to his skin. Bruce still doesn’t know his kid - heck, his kid doesn’t even know his father is in the same room as him - but all the man wants to do is tell him to breathe and not be on the verge of a panic attack. And because Bruce is Bruce, he does say that. “Stiles, breathe. In and out, slowly, and then one deep breath - that’s it, now breathe out through your nose and repeat.” He is more tempted to draw the trembling kid into a hug, the whole one eighty mood shift scaring Bruce more than he would care to admit to anyone. Besides, hugging his son when unaware of their actual relation would seem to be a douchebag move, so he refrains, no matter how hard the urge to just give in and do it.

Stiles coughs for a while, his wild eyes calming again, but never regain their previous state of aloofness or shield of stubbornness. “I really put my foot in my mouth there… So, yeah, I don’t actually know what the hell inhumans are, but that dude wasn’t one.”

Natasha snarls again, her calm and collected facade having been traded in for a momentary use of physical scare tactics that Bruce doesn’t appreciate being used on his son one bit. “Then what is he?”

The teenagers shifts for a second, as if he’s uncomfortable for a long while until he finds a spot on the hard plastic chair that is better to look at than all the other spots. “Well, the guy’s a werewolf, duh.”

Tony splutters somewhere out of Bruce’s field of vision, but he finds himself joining him before he can hold it in. Bruce also knows that if Natasha and Clint had been just a bit more human, they might have joined in with them. As it is, the two SHIELD agents stare at Stiles like he has sprouted a second head and started doing the can can with a space snake. Thor, surprisingly, is the only one who doesn’t seem surprised at all.

“Big, hairy, fanged people?” Asks Tony, and Steve doesn’t say or do anything at all but continue to stare at Stiles. “Like freaking Wolfman? Are you serious? You  _ have  _ to be kidding, kid!” Natasha is apparently right there alongside their Man of Iron, but Tony is the one asking all the questions, despite them being on practically everyone’s mind.

To all of their collective surprise, it’s not Stiles who answers their question, but rather Thor the Almighty who has been oddly quiet throughout the whole deal. “It would make a lot of sense for Fenrir’s kin to be involved, if what the Son of Coul told us is the truth.” And just like that, Thor has verified Stiles’ ridiculous claim of werewolves actually existing as more than a figment of some crazy people’s imagination.

Stiles is a lot more calm as well, his whole body twisting itself towards Thor as though he has finally found himself an ally in a room full of weirdos who doesn’t believe werewolves are real. “Cool, so you know Fenrir, or is that a misconception among the human race in general? Like, I really want to know how werewolves came into existence, but they aren’t the best chroniclers.” He is so different from the hyperventilating teen Bruce had been helping calm down seconds ago.

“That is a long story, my friend,” laughs Thor, and Bruce envies the blonde God a whole lot more for connecting with his son faster than he had the chance to. “But it is one I will gladly share with you, when it is a proper time to do so. Although I must admit that I have not met many of Fenrir’s kin in my time here on Midgard, yet I have heard tales of their bravery and cruelty alike.”

“Trust me, man, female werewolves on their period during the full moon;  _ fierce _ , is all I’m saying. Although feeding them chocolate and stocking up on romantic movies does help out a lot. And, ya’ know, chains for the first couple of moons, but that’s not exactly gender specific - just me not being keen on having my guts torn out whenever Isaac’s feeling prissy.”

Bruce can’t believe his son and Thor, the God of Thunder, is having such a casual conversation about werewolves as though they are real, when the rest of the room is still processing the fact that apparently  _ werewolves are a real thing _ ! (Bruce thinks about turning green, just for a second, but he smashes the thought with an Other Guy sized fist.)

“Hang on a second,” barks Bruce, and the entire room stills, Stiles included. “Can we just return to the fact that werewolves are apparently a somewhat common thing, or am I not as enlightened as I have been led to believe?” Steve nods along with him, and Tony looks downright put out at Thor knowing something he didn’t, the big jealous baby.

“Sure,” says Stiles with a smile, and Bruce melts a bit on the inside, because that is one hundred percent Claudia’s smile. “Just, you know, don’t go telling everyone they exist or anything like that, ‘cause if you do, I’ll hunt all of you down and make sure you regret it. Pack comes first, whether or not you’re the Avengers.” Bruce has to admit that’s a bit more scary coming out of his son’s mouth than he would have thought, but then the sentence registers. His son just threatened him - all of them. Out loud, inside a SHIELD building. While handcuffed to a table.

“Big words for a kid in ‘cuffs,” scoffs Tony, and then before Bruce can blink, Stiles is out of handcuffs and leaning back on the chair. He dangles one leg precariously, but doesn’t otherwise make any threatening moves.

“Big words for a playboy not wearing his suit of armor.”

Natasha and Clint whip out their weapons faster than Bruce can comprehend, but he appreciates the fact that only the two SHIELD agents act like Stiles might immediately try to make a run for it and escape through the vents like a ninja.

“Chill, it’s not like I’m going to try anything; I’m not suicidal. Seriously, what kind of cop’s son would I be if I can’t get out of a pair of handcuffs. ‘Sides, they were chafing my wrists.” He rubs his wrists to emphasize his point, and some deep paternal instinct inside of Bruce is mad at the people who locked his son up so tightly.

“How are you feeling?” Asks Bruce, flushing slightly red as he hears himself voice his concerns for his son. Stiles shoots him a look that clearly asks if he has momentarily hit himself on the head, but Bruce keeps up his inquisitive gaze until Stiles cracks and frowns.

“I’m fine, I guess… Didn’t catch a whole lot of sleep. The shady agent dudes also took my phone, knife and Reese’s Cups. I can forgive the first two, but taking away my candy is so not okay, dude.” Stiles is apparently not obviously concerned about Natasha and Clint with their weapons pointed at him, and slowly the two assassins lower their tense arms.

“Otherwise you are okay? No pain, no other sleep deprivation?”

Stiles frowns again, and Bruce fears that the kid is seeing right through him. His mind screams at him to divert the attention away from his overprotective concerns and on to a safer topic, because Stiles is much more capable and smarter than Bruce could have ever guessed. Then a thought strikes him, lights him up like a match, and something inside of him freezes up. “Stiles, are you a werewolf?”

It takes a bit longer for Stiles’ scrutinizing to stop than Bruce would have bet money on, but then the kid laughs like a troll, clutching his stomach at the most ridiculous joke in the entire world. “Me?” He gasps. “A werewolf?  _ Ha _ !” Bruce can’t see what’s so funny about it, and neither can any of the other Avengers. Everyone, apparently, does not include Thor, as he has joined in with Stiles’ hearty laughter.

“My good friends, a werewolf would be demanding a right to be outside - inferior spaces are not of their likes. Yet, Son of Banner is not fretting to be out and running beneath a moon.” Thor is smiling as he speaks, but the colour in Bruce’s face disappears quickly with his words.

“What?” Squeaks Stiles, as they register with him as well, a wild look overtaking his face as though the room they are in is suddenly way too small. Bruce is right there alongside him, breathing heavily and trying to calm down his sparking nerves. He thinks they might be frayed beyond repair - his nerves, that is.

Steve is scandalized, Natasha and Clint are faintly amused, and Tony is just glad that he wasn’t the one to let the cat out of the bag this time around. Thor has the common decency to downright blush, but he doesn’t deny what he has said nor does he try to rectify it. Bruce doesn’t know which option is the lesser evil, but Stiles is the perfect example of a deer caught in the headlights. (Bruce doesn’t know if he’s the car in that metaphor, or if he’s another deer  who is just as trapped in the headlights belonging to a greater scheme of things called life).

Bruce looks at his son, really looks at him, eyes meeting over a cold metal table with a naked truth exposed on the top of it. For a while, there is nothing but the silence in the room, or maybe it is just the ferocious blood pumping in Bruce’s ears that makes him unable to hear anything. The quid pro quo agreement has been discarded at the previous mention of werewolves, and Stiles gives another little squeak again.

“What?” He echoes, for a second time, pupils blown wide at their quick looks from Thor to Bruce and back again. Words don’t come out of Bruce’s mouth, no matter how much he wants them to, and Stiles leans back in the flimsy chair. He doesn’t speak again, but Bruce notices the way his unrestricted fingers flick up and down, as though counting the number of appendages on his hands. Stiles counts to ten under his breath, and then repeats the motion while Bruce tries to stop his tongue from choking him.

Steve gives Bruce a gentle push with his shoulder, but considering his super abilities, it is more of a forceful nudge than anything else. There is a brief thought in Bruce’s mind that ponders whether or not there will be a bruise formed there later in the day, but the pain reminds him that he is not the only one in the room way beyond the point of freaking out. His son is on the verge of a panic attack, and letting it run its course is something Bruce would never allow Stiles to be put through.

“That wasn’t how you were supposed to find out,” he finds himself saying. It is all just syllables dripping from Bruce’s mouth in a heap of air that somehow comes out making sense. Having a functional body above a functional mind is not something Bruce would have taken any other day, but in that moment he could not be any happier about his body having an autopilot button. “But it also answers your previous question as to why we are in charge of your interrogation at the moment.”

Stiles huffs out a breath of air, and it occurs to Bruce that it is a weak attempt at a laugh. “This is a joke, right?” His eyes seem to plead the same, but the silence in the room is enough confirmation for just about anyone. A hand runs through the mop of hair on his head, and Stiles leans forwards on his arms as his face plants itself on the freezing tabletop.

“I mean, I knew my Dad wasn’t actually my real Dad, but just - seriously?” He continues, voice muffled. “Can’t I ever get one vacation without too much weird shit going on, or is that too much to ask?” There’s an exasperation there that Bruce hadn’t been expecting, because his son sounds too old to just be eighteen. He sounds too wise and too tired of shitty situations than someone his age should have any right to.

Instead of asking him to elaborate on that statement, Bruce throws himself over the question that has been lurking inside of his skull for as many years as his son has been alive. “So Claudia did tell you about me, but just not my name? What else did she say?”

A groan escapes Stiles’ cocoon of miserable life that he has enveloped himself in, and with just a peek above his arms, he catches Bruce’s eyes. “Just that my Dad was my Dad, except, you know, I’m not exactly fifty percent him and that it was some other guy out there in the universe. Mum said that you were some sort of super smart science geek and that you were both young, so she left before she knew that I was there. Never mentioned you by name, and I didn’t really care. She loved me, my Dad loves me and most of my friends don’t want to actively kill me, so I consider myself somewhat lucky.”

Bruce doesn’t know what to say to that, except that he’s sort of glad that Claudia had at least explained the situation somewhat. It probably saved them all from having an embarrassing repeat of the ‘Luke, I am your Father,’ scene, followed by extreme denial. At least now, they had already subtracted the extreme denial from the equation. It didn’t stop Bruce’s stomach from churning oh so awfully from nerves and terror, but it did help a little.

Stiles extends a hand and clears his throat, sitting properly in his chair again, a flush to his cheeks as Bruce just stares. “Nice to meet you, I guess,” says Stiles, and Bruce gets it. They shake hands, an odd gesture, but somehow it was enough of a comfort for both of them to not be freaking out about the situation. Steve sends a sideways smile across the table, and Tony looks downright ready to snatch up Stiles and whisk him away for a long questioning on the existence of werewolves and who knows what else.

Bruce doesn’t do any of those things, and lets go of Stiles’ hand when they both find the timing appropriate. “Nice to meet you too, Stiles. My name’s Bruce.” He says instead, and it makes him feel good. Something warm curls in his chest, and it is not an uncomfortable lump or a bundle of high strung nerves. He identifies it as relief. The fact that Stiles hasn’t denied anything yet, nor made any actual move to escape the room leaves enough room in Bruce’s body for just a smidgen of hope that they might actually be able to work something out. (He had always imagined the actual first meeting to go terribly, and somehow end up with him having a son that denied his existence and acted as though he wasn’t there. And what a joy to discover that that was as far from the case as he could get).

Stiles clears his throat, eyes flickering between all of the different Avengers collected in the room, as though to assess their inner workings and how likely they were to stab him. “So,” he says with a polite smile, very unlike his previous smirks at the start of the interrogation. “What happens now?” The question is a legitimate concern, because Bruce finds himself unable to provide his son with an actual answer.

Natasha stalks forward, all hard edges and clean cut beauty in the way she can be on the warpath and still appear concerned for the safety of SHIELD’s integrity. “Now you tell us how you were able to deal with the-” she pauses, unsure of herself for the first time that Bruce can actually remember. “The  _ werewolf _ , that you encountered here in New York.”

“Seriously, I just wanted to buy some Reese’s Cups and then the guy decided to rob the store. I decided not to let him get away with it, then followed, then fought, then got taken in by a shady agency dedicated to having a silly acronym.” Stiles looks around the interrogation room, eyes searching for something that he apparently doesn’t find at first glance. “And by the way, I didn’t get to pay for those Reese’s Cups, so unless you give them back so I can pay, SHIELD is technically in possession of stolen goods. Which is a criminal offense, just so you know.” By God, Bruce really doesn’t like the way Tony is all but grinning at the amount of sass his son is throwing at them. Natasha grits her teeth in response, the humour lost on her at the prospect of being faced with something she has yet to get acquainted with.

“That might be,” she hisses and leans up in Stiles’ personal space. Bruce is tempted to tell her to back off, but he likes being alive too much to protect his son from the wrath of the Black Widow. “But it still doesn’t explain how you were aware of the existence of werewolves, nor how you came to possess knowledge of how to take them out.”

“Take him down,” Stiles corrects, and Natasha backs off in confusion for but a brief second. “I didn’t take him out, I took him down. No need to kill unless provoked, okay?” He says, and there’s a seriousness there that makes Natasha let up on him for a bit. It doesn’t escape Bruce’s notice that his son mentions killing as though it is a viable option for an eighteen year old kid. (Part of him wants to know why Stiles even includes it as an option, and a much larger part of him wants to just forget about it altogether).

Natasha swings up to sit on the edge of the table, eyes narrowed in a suspicion that Bruce doesn’t share or can concoct on his own. “You were prepared for a fight. The knife you had on you when you were brought into custody was clearly a treasured possession. You expected yourself to be in a situation where it was needed.”

Stiles frowns, something dark and terrifying fluttering behind his delicate eyelashes. Bruce notices, with a little horror and worry, that his son has inherited his habit of cheek chewing until there is drawn blood. (It fills him with both pride and some stern paternal instinct within himself that he doesn’t recognise).

Swallowing what blood had welled in his mouth, Stiles draws a stuttering breath, his eyes seeking out Thor as he considered his next words. “Werewolves are sort of a normal occurrence in Beacon Hills. It’s not exactly rare to run into a few along the road, so it’s better to be prepared for a fight.”

“Is it normal for werewolves to exude aggressive behaviour?” Asks Clint, and Bruce can’t help but want to echo it. If werewolves are common, then wouldn’t they have been exposed long before if that were the case? And why would Stiles stay in a town overrun by mythical beasts with an insatiable bloodlust?

Stiles gives a laugh and shakes his head at the notion. “God, no, not everyone is aggressive, I swear. Most are pretty harmless once they get it under control, but sometimes people are just dicks - that doesn’t necessarily make them werewolves by default.”

The message is clearly riddled with information, if one would be willing to take apart Stiles’ statement, but as it stands, all Bruce asks is; “Have you met many bad werewolves?” The rest of the Avengers are once again silent, as they await Stiles’ response in a somewhat tense quiet. Thor is the only one who isn’t bothered by the werewolf discussion, but the unfairness of him actually knowing beforehand is a big part of that, or so Bruce presumes.

Stiles stills, perhaps truly for the first time since Bruce has seen him in person, and the action is more foreboding than he could have imagined. He hadn’t noticed the need to move around or fiddle with things at first, but as soon as Stiles stops doing it, it is clear that it is such an intricate part of his character that it appears unnatural. “Quite a few more than I would have liked,” he says in lieu of the question. “Not all werewolves, but some creatures just as horrible as a nightmare you can’t wake up from.” He shudders, goosebumps appearing on his skin despite the warm, red hoodie he is wearing. There is another story there, Bruce knows it, but the reluctance to speak makes it clear that it is a topic not easily broached. (It makes Bruce feel horrible, knowing that his son was involved in strange, otherworldly things that made him look so vulnerable and small when thinking of them. It reminded him of a drunk and regretful Clint, more than anything else).

“It was bad,” continued Stiles, voice dropping an octave lower. “Heck, who are we kidding, it’s still bat shit crazy back home, but that’s why we went on vacation while the rest stayed back. It was time to get some r&r, you know?”

Natasha startles with nothing more than a twitch of her eyebrows as a tell for those who really know her. “Wait,” she says, and slams a hand down on the metal top she has yet to leave from. “You said ‘we.’ Who are ‘we?’”

Bruce wonders the same, because if Stiles wasn’t in New York with John the Sheriff, then who was he vacationing with? (Without his Dad, no less? Who was comfortable sending off their eighteen year old son to such a big city without accompanying them yourself?)

“Well, ‘we’ are obviously a delegation of the Pack from Beacon Hills. Our Alpha couldn’t actually take some time off, because that’s not how territory works, so we’re working out a rotation schedule so everyone gets a bit of a vacation this summer.”

Tony is the one to stop Stiles this time, and the teen pouts as he is yet again restrained from getting out of the interrogation room with the help of his silver tongue. “You keep mentioning a ‘Pack,’ but you said you aren’t a werewolf. How does that even work? How can someone be part of a - a  _ Pack _ , without being a wolf?”

A smile tugs at the corner of Stiles’ mouth, as though he has pondered the question himself many times and found the answer either amusing or severely lacking. “Pack is sort of an all inclusive umbrella term, I guess. Banshee, werewolf, kitsune,” his hands are all over the place as he gestures with broad strokes in time with his words. “Regular humans are okay too. It’s the feeling of being Pack - of having an Alpha, that’s the important thing. Everything else is just an extension of yourself, not a limitation. Think about how boring Packs can be with just grumpy wolves around, I mean, who would get them chocolate and curly fries when they have moon hangovers?” Stiles is a rambler, Bruce can tell that now. It is endearing, though, because Claudia used to do the same, and he sees so much of her in him that it is almost too scary for him to think about.

“Let’s pretend for a moment that I actually know what those names you flung out are supposed to mean, and then let’s rewind to the part where you said Alpha. Am I correct in assuming that ordinary wolf dynamics are applicable in a werewolf Pack as well?” Tony, ever a man of science, if not curiosity, asks the ever important questions despite the eyerolls he garners with the extra attention on him.

Before Stiles has the opportunity to answer, Thor takes it upon himself to answer the Man of Iron’s question, his voice nearly shaking the room with intensity. “Of course, my friend. My nephew, Fenrir, is as much a wolf as those who walk the earth of Midgard. It is fascinating how Fenrir has a dislike for werewolves when they are of his flesh and blood.”

Bruce can see how much Tony wants to blurt out that Loki is sort of Thor’s kin as well, and he’s kind of less than sane either, but a well placed kick to the shin from Steve has him biting his tongue in pain instead. Sometimes having a super serum soldier in the room is a great deterrent for embarrassing outbursts by teammates.

The door creaks open again, and the Avengers startle in their respective seats (except Natasha and Clint, of course, the damn ninjas). Coulson steps in, face flushed and suit slightly more crumbled than the impeccable imagine Bruce has always seen him in. Sweat is running down his brow, and his chest heaves in air as though he has run down the hallway in a manic fashion, very unlike the exercise a federal agent would usually be expected to perform at any given time. “Excuse me, but it appears that Mr Stilinski is in high demand.” He says, and flicks through a new set of papers Bruce hadn’t noticed in his hands before.

“Uh,” Stiles is both reluctant to go with him, and the confusion on his face isn’t lessened when he tries to send ‘save me’ looks in both Thor and Bruce’s general direction. “What seems to be the problem, Mr Agent, Sir?” Coulson doesn’t comment on the lack of handcuffs, nor the relaxed atmosphere he had so abruptly broken up, but his face does contort in a frustrated manner Bruce had only ever associated with being on Tony duty.

“There appears to be an escalating situation down at the reception. A young woman refuses to leave until she has seen that Mr Stilinski has come to no harm while having been in our care.” Stiles snorts at Coulson’s wording, but the Agent plunges on. “It would appear beneficial for all parties involved that she is calmed down as quickly as possible. So if you would please follow me, Mr Stilinski.”

A protest is brewing on the tip of Bruce’s tongue, and by the looks of his fellow teammates, they are as equally reluctant to hand over the young teen as he is. Stiles clicks his tongue and gets up from the chair, handcuffs shining in fluorescent light and dangling from the edge of the metal table.

“Young woman, you say? Strawberry blonde, ‘won’t be dealing with your shit today’ attitude and impeccable sense of style?” Stiles says it with a laugh and a smile on his face, making his moles jump all over the place. If possible, it is the brightest Bruce has seen his son’s eyes all morning. Liquid amber, by any other definition.

Coulson simply nods, exasperation and an incredible amount of exhaustion visible on the lines in his face. “If you could please follow me, so that she doesn’t tear apart my staff in an effort to get a hold of you.” A hand waves Stiles in front of the Agent, and with barely a glance back at the remaining occupants of the interrogation room, he signals for the rest of them to follow as well. Most likely because Coulson has the brains not to try to separate the Hulk from his newly found son just yet. (Smart man, Bruce can admit that).

Bruce believes it would be a silent walk of shame for his son, but to his great surprise, there is not a moment of silence with Stiles, even when the kid is being escorted by the Avengers through a federal detainment facility. “Lydia can be quite scary, right? Seriously, you do not wanna cross her on a bad day, oh man, I think Scott still has the scars to prove it. And God, the amount of times Jackson has been forced to sit through another viewing of  _ The Notebook _ ? Man, the look on his face is priceless whenever someone mentions it on movie night.” He babbles all the while they are walking, and while Bruce finds the detachment of the present situation quite discomforting in all reality, all he really wants to know is who the heck this Lydia girl is to his son. Is she the girlfriend? Just a friend? Best friend? Someone sent his way to make sure he doesn’t get caught up with local authorities while on vacation?

The good doctor doesn’t ask. (Frankly, he is scared to know the answer. If his son runs with werewolves on a somewhat regular basis, then what did that mean in relation to the people Stiles surrounded himself with?) Thor is the only one taking the whole development with relative ease, and that thought is quite scary as well, if Bruce has to admit to himself. The day a blonde, scandinavian model of a God is the most calm out of all of them, what does that say about the whole situation?

Noise from the reception isn’t as easily hindered in the rest of the building as one might be led to believe, so Bruce has no trouble discerning the voice of a generally pissed off American citizen. “I mean it, lady, if you or  _ SHIELD _ ,” she says it with such disdain and carefully veiled anger that Bruce can’t help but shrink down a size or two. “Has harmed a hair on Stiles’ buzzcut head, I’ll make sure you never,  _ ever _ , get a job ever again. Have I made myself clear?”

Their little entourage of people round the corner just in time to see the poor receptionist nodding her head in fear of a fuming strawberry blonde. Tony whistles low behind Bruce, and while Stiles appears to be completely happy with this turn of events, Bruce has never been more scared in his life.

The Devil doesn’t have horns, and neither is it a mythical being from more than six feet under ground. No, the Devil wears six inch heels, bright red lipstick and a clutch. The Devil has clearly had a recent manicure administered, wears the latest fashion trend and knows how to make even agents of SHIELD tremble before her presence.

“Lydia Martin!” Exclaims Stiles and throws his arms open as he envelops the wraith of a young woman into a tight hug. “Bailing me out already? I figured I would have to  _ at least _ wait until you would have had your breakfast.”

The newly named Lydia Martin thrusts an empty coffee cup in Stiles’ face, and he blinks at it. “Thanks to you I had to survive off of Starbucks.  _ Starbucks _ , Stiles! That is unacceptable, and you owe me a life debt for this.”

Bruce feels a shift in the very fabric of the universe. A dangerous one. Because out there in the world, somewhere, Nick Fury is watching this spectacle unfold, and he sees, just as Bruce does, how valuable Lydia Martin can be. If all she had in her arsenal was her words and an empty coffee cup to get her friend out of interrogation, then they would be fools to let her become part of another agency.

Stiles takes the cup from her hands and disposes of it in the nearest bin he can find. “How about a weekend of me cooking whatever you want?” There’s a clear reluctance from Stiles about owning this woman a life debt, but his offer of food is nonetheless genuine. Lydia contemplates it in silence, polished nails clicking the front of her teeth while she weighs her options. She sticks out a hand for Stiles to shake.

“Deal,” she says. “But one weekend includes Friday all throughout Sunday.”

“Friday post school and we have an agreement.”  
Lydia smirks, perfect lipstick twisting into a kind, yet calculating smile. “Fine, Mr Stilinski, a compromise I can agree to, but only if you include your homemade vanilla shake as a Saturday snack.”

Bruce can’t honestly believe how his son and this Lydia Martin person can discuss food as such a high value bargaining chip while in SHIELD quarters. (He fears for his sanity as much as his son’s).

“You drive a hard bargain, Miss Martin, but I accept your conditions.” They shake hands, and slowly the two youngest people dissolve into fits of giggles at their pretended seriousness. Bruce doesn’t question for a moment that Lydia did mean every word of their deal, and Stiles apparently knows that too, because he hugs her one more time and turns back to the rest of them with a grin on his face.

“So, Avengers and weird Agent in a suit, meet the wonderful Queen of all earthlings, the one and only Miss Lydia Martin.” Stiles gives a mock bow, but Thor returns the gesture with as much enthusiasm as everything else he and Stiles has discussed over the short period of getting to know each other.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Martin.” Thor grabs hold of her hand a presses a kiss to the back of it like the gentleman he is, and Bruce wonders, not for the first time, how much of Thor’s Midgardian confusion is an actual act and not just him messing around with them.

Lydia gives a small laugh, mirthful face hidden behind a delicate hand as she amuses herself with Thor’s actions. Stiles leans over and gives her a sideways hug, his smile becoming more strained as his eyes flicker over to Bruce and back to his companion.

“Lydia Martin, meet Agent ‘my name is on my badge but I’m not saying it out loud’ and the Avengers, Guardians of New York and I guess the entire world? What’s your actual jurisdiction? Are there restrictions to where you can save people or do you get a pass to anywhere you want to go and stop whatever destruction currently there?”

Bruce knows there is disappointment somewhere within himself when Stiles doesn’t introduce him in particular. He can get behind the whole thing being weird, because it honestly is, but there is still a brief amount of hurt in his chest that he can’t alleviate.

Coulson is the one to answer the barrage of questions before Tony can blurt out some national secrets in front of two civilians. Bruce can’t tell if he is amused by Stiles’ description of him, or if he is silently taking the slight insult in stride. Knowing Coulson, Bruce wouldn’t put it past the man to feel for both. “I apologise that we cannot disclose the answer to those questions, Mr Stilinski, but I would instead like to know how your friend managed to find your current whereabouts. According to my agents, you did not have contact with anyone in the moments leading up to your subsequent arrest, and you were not permitted phone privileges afterwards.”

It isn’t an actual question Coulson poses, but more of an observation that doesn’t compute with the facts he has been given. Stiles appears to echo that statement as he turns to face the blonde, head tilted as he ponders the same question. “Huh, hadn’t actually thought of that.” He says with a shrug. “Seriously, though, how did you find me Lyds?”

She scrunches up her nose, curls bouncing on her shoulders as she grabs a loose strand of hair and twirls it between her fingers. “Everybody whispers, Stiles, you know that. It’s all just a case of asking the right questions and knowing when to listen.”

Apparently Stiles knows exactly what she means, because he doesn’t ask her to elaborate, much to Coulson’s frustration, but simply drops the topic like it had veered into extremely uncomfortable grounds. Thor, again, smiles like he knows what the whole shebang is about but doesn’t choose to share with the class.

Coulson heaves another sigh, entirely done with the whole situation. “You know what, I strongly suggest that neither of you two get caught up in too much trouble while enjoying the rest of your stay in New York. If you can agree with that, then I believe that concludes your business at SHIELD, so if you would please leave the building without terrorising any more of my staff, that would be much appreciated.”

Lydia is about ready to bolt out the door, heels turned and on the move with one hand snaked through Stiles’ arm in an attempt to drag him along. Bruce finds himself talking before he can actually stop and not embarrass himself any further. “Wait!” He calls out, and Stiles halts with a jolt, causing his companion to abruptly be held up as well. “How about we give you a tour of the Avengers’ Tower? Consider it compensation for the unrightful SHIELD imprisonment.” The excuse is tame, even to Bruce’s own ears, and Natasha’s eye roll confirms as much. Thor, on the other hand, beams with excitement at the prospect of having the young teen hang out with them for at least a little while longer.

Lydia turns on the spot. “Stiles Stilinski, what have you done to warrant the Avengers’ attention?”

“Um, I may or may not have accidently stolen a pack of Reese’s Cups when I went after a werewolf…” He shuffles his feet, somehow coming off as smaller than Lydia despite his superior height. The hoodie is baggy on his body, and there are circles under his eyes that Bruce hadn’t noticed before. He wants to blame it on the lighting of the reception, but knows that it won’t be enough of an explanation.

Lydia’s eyes are narrowed - dangerous portals staring into Stiles’ soul. She doesn’t call him out on the seemingly evasive tactic, but allows him the brief respite for now. “One of these days, Stiles, one of these days, I swear…”

“Is that a yes?” Questions Clint, and all heads swivel to look at Lydia as though she is the deciding factor. She huffs, cheek puffing out as she contemplates the pros and cons of saying yes. She takes into account Bruce’s hopeful face and Stiles’ somewhat painful, yet nervous in a good kind of way, grimace.

“I’ll allow it, just because I really want to loom this over everyone back at home.” Lydia breaks quickly enough, but she throws a quirked eyebrow in Stiles’ general direction. “But you’re in charge of telling the boys. Everybody was pretty freaked out when you didn’t get back to the hotel last night.”

Stiles doesn’t whoop for joy, as so many of his peers would have done at the mere thought of getting to see the headquarters of the Avengers. Instead, cold sweat breaks out on his brow at Lydia’s terms of conditions. “I think this is a good time to ask for my knife back.”

 

The drive to the tower is strangely long and awkward. Stiles gravitates towards leaning on Lydia and talking in hushed whispers with Thor, more often than not leading to the blonde God letting out a small laugh or a gasp of excitement. The teen shoots off a text message at some point while Lydia is deeply engrossed with discussion conditioner with Thor, and Stiles’ phone practically erupts from a mass onslaught of texts.

If possible, his face turns an uncomfortable shade of white, akin to that of a ghost, and the gulp of breath he draws in is audible and loud in their relative silence. Lydia doesn’t spare her companion a glance, but she does shoot off a text or two of her own that seems to placate whoever was on the other end. Both of the teens must have been given clear instructions for the receiver not to call, because there is a strange silence soon after.

“Our friends, Jackson and Derek, are going to meet up with us at the tower, if that’s cool with all of you guys,” Stiles says it with nonchalance, but he doesn’t leave room for discussion. Tony just gives them a thumbs up in return, while Clint and Natasha share a look that seems to say ‘oh geeze, more civilians in a high security facility, oh the joy.’ A tendril of excitement grabs a hold of Bruce’s stomach with the thought of meeting more of his son’s friends. He wants to know what sort of people Stiles spends his time with, and whether or not he is hanging with the right crowd. (Bruce knows he doesn’t get a say in that, but a Father can only ever hope, can’t he? Although if the friends are all of Lydia’s caliber, he is leaning more towards being scared than comforted at the thought).

Stiles sends a few more texts, but he is far more relaxed now than before, and Bruce’s shoulders unfurl some the tension as well. He hadn’t noticed how cramped up his body had been until he unwinded in the car, and even then he knew it would take a solid while before he wasn’t sore.

Upon their arrival at the Tower, Jarvis lets them in through the garage. Tony and all of his cars proved useful for once, and if the smirk on said man’s face is anything to go by, he knows it just as well. (It’s not as though any of the others can just order an eight seat limousine on a whim and still have salary left).

Stiles gasps at the sight from their common floor, the view of New York as stunning each morning as though you have seen it for the first time. Lydia tries hard not to be impressed, but the small, sparkling gleam in her eyes and the twitch of her fingers as she eyes the expensive furniture gives her away.

“Like it?” Asks Tony, that God infuriating smirk not having left his face just yet, and by looks of it, isn’t going to do so any time soon. Steve awards their friend with an eyeroll of exasperation, but doesn’t otherwise interfere.

Lydia scoffs at Tony. “I like it, I admit it freely, but you have clearly not decorated this yourself, so don’t go taking all the credit. I guess Pepper Potts had a hand or two involved in the selection process?”

A jaw hits the floor in every sense but the actual, physical one, and Tony is rendered speechless in the wake of the oncoming storm named Lydia Martin. Clint snorts with laughter, and Bruce can’t deny the smile he sees on Natasha’s face either.

Something about the young woman is impressive, captivating, even, and it both confuses and astounds Bruce in a way he doesn’t know how to feel about. His son is clearly taken by her, as he constantly seeks her out with small glances and close, physical contact. She returns the favour just as eagerly, and despite the fact that she may come off hard or even a bit blunt, there is no denying that she has a soft spot for Stiles.

“You and Lydia, are you a couple?” Blurts Bruce, cheeks heating up at his ineloquent way of phrasing that particular question. Lydia stares at him like he has grown a second head and spouted a quote from ‘ _ The Magicians _ .’ Stiles just howls with laughter and clutches at his stomach like the proverbial loon.

“Is Stydia a thing?” He wheezes out between cramps of laughter. “Not in in this universe, but I do still believe she is the platonic love of my life.” He grabs her hand and swings her around to a music no one but them can hear. Lydia joins him in his laughter, and despite demanding to be let go from his clutches instead of waltzing around, genuine happiness is clear on her face.

Lydia smacks Stiles on the back of his head, gentle, but still as forceful as every other characteristic about the young woman. Bruce guesses internally that with the immediate response he got that his first assumption was an incorrect one. Extremely close friends, yes, but no more lovers than himself or Tony. (Bromance, he believes the word is called if someone should happen to ask the general younger public for a term).

“Sirs,” JARVIS interrupts, and Stiles mutters out a strangely loud ‘Holy shit!’ at the synthesised voice of the AI. “Two gentlemen seem quite eager to enter the Tower. Do you wish to let them in, Mr Stark?”

Tony shoots Lydia and Stiles a glance, but they both simply give nods and Stiles even waves a hand at the unspoken question. Clearly, whoever is at their doorstep are the two missing friends Stiles had mentioned on their journey in the car. Bruce becomes all the more giddy as soon as the thought enters his mind and enters a stage of becoming something even bigger. Stiles may not have acknowledged Bruce fully in the presence of a friend yet, but that didn’t cut Bruce off from observing his son’s friends as any other Father would surely do.

“Let them in, JARVIS, I do believe they are expected by our newest guests.” Tony flies behind the bar as though his expensive jeans were on fire, eager to get a drink in his hand and keep up with the perfect playboy image that the media had made him out to be. Bruce doesn’t bother telling him not to do so, as it is completely unnecessary - there is no arguing with Tony when he is in such a mood, and the rest of the team knows it as well.

The elevator ride takes approximately twenty two seconds to get to the top floor of the building, thanks to Tony and his brilliant mind. It doesn’t make the wait any less excruciating, but it helps alleviate some of Bruce’s nerves to know that there isn’t long to go.

The air in the room is thick and heavy with tension, even pouring off of both Stiles and Lydia in waves, although the latter does so in a much more carefully constructed way. The eyes of the two teens flicker towards various exits, and for a moment, Bruce thinks maybe he should be scared of the two people riding up in the elevator. It only strikes him a sliver of a second later that the teens are locating exits in case they need to get away from the  _ Avengers _ . (The idea is highly absurd, but for whatever got Bruce’s son involved in the whole werewolf business, he isn’t as surprised at the fact than he probably should be).

A ding echoes across the vastly open floor, and at a nearly clinically swing of their collective heads, everyone’s attention is directed towards the elevator and its opening doors.

The young man who exits first is clearly under some form of emotional duress. He acknowledges the Avengers with nary a glance, nose turned up at the sight of them that graces his eyes, and instead they seek out Lydia Martin almost instantly. “Lydia, please allow for Derek to come with you next time you go out searching for Stilinski. I can’t take another second of him fretting and worrying, it’s more distracting than McCall in his pubescent days.” His voice is scathing, and Bruce has an immediate dislike to this strangely rude person. His hair is cut short, meticulous, and his sense of dress and self all scream towards a young man who is used to moving in the upper social circles.

Bruce is tempted to cut the young man off for not even bothering with his son, but then he catches it like a mote of dust only visible in the vaguest of sunlight. Eyes scan over Stiles, quick and efficient, but careful and truly worried beneath their hard surface.

Stiles must catch it too. “Aw, didn’t know you cared so much about me Jax, can I hug you to show my appreciation for all that you do?” He refrains from trying a hug, though, and Bruce deems that a wise choice of action considering the glare that is send back at Stiles.

Lydia meets the man in a hug and he returns it just as eagerly. “Stiles, stop teasing Jackson and go hug Derek already. I can literally feel the air becoming more broody - do something about it before I have to.”

Only then does Bruce turn his attention to the man that stalks out of the elevator at last. His eyes flitter everywhere, taking in exits, people and friends alike. He works on a higher level than the others, and they defer to him, as this Jackson boy so very clearly demonstrated. The fact that he is clearly much older than the other three bothers Bruce immensely. There’s scruff on his face, unshaven from a night of tossing and turning while filled to the brim with worry.

Stiles lights up like a Christmas tree at the mere sight of the man. “I’m okay, Derek,” says Stiles, and he repeats it all the way as he crosses the floor with a destination in mind. He halts in front Derek, the other man having eyes for nothing else in the room as he simply takes in the gangly teenager standing in front of him.

Bruce knows Natasha is about ready to throw some knives, if only to relieve some of the tension, despite the fact that it might have a less desired effect than she wants. Everyone else is waiting with bated breath. They have been in the presence of dangerous people before, all of the Avengers, and they know when they come across one. This Derek is no exception to that instinct, and the very fact that Stiles doesn’t seem to care is the worst of it all. Even Steve has one foot poised as if intending a sprint could become a necessity.

Someone initiates a hug first, but from where Bruce is standing, it is impossible to know who took the initiative. Derek and Stiles curl around each other like they are two jigsaw pieces for are infinitely molded together and may never fit another puzzle piece ever again. It’s a warm embrace, Stiles smiling and Derek sighing in content as he holds the younger man in his arms. It might be Bruce’s imagination, but he is willing to bet with Clint that Derek actually leans in for a sniff of his son, even though Stiles doesn’t react to the obvious intrusion of his privacy.

For all of the tension and worry in the room, Thor is the only one not to feel it. He is smiling, gaze wide and appreciative as he gazes at the newcomers with unhindered curiosity. He looks over Jackson first, confusion furrowing his brow until something makes sense in his head. Then he turns to study Derek with such calm he might be mistaken for an honest scientist. Thor gives a gentle smile when his eyes catches those of Derek, whom in return simply stares back and then gives a small nod.

Derek lets go of Stiles, but one hand is kept around Stiles’ waist at all times. A blush creeps up on Stiles’ face, his face briefly staring in Bruce’s general direction, but he doesn’t acknowledge his father any more than that. Although it does explain why it was such an obvious choice to laugh at his inquiry about Lydia and Stiles being a couple. Apparently his son was very much involved with someone older, and decidedly more male than Bruce would have expected his son to be dating. (Not that the gender was problem, although his heart did ache at the obvious difference in their age. It mustn’t have been all that comfortable dating if they had started doing so before Stiles turned eighteen. Eyes of judgement roamed the entire world, not just small towns in California).

Stiles gives a vague wave at Lydia and the frowning Jackson. “That’s Jackson, by the way, since introductions apparently isn’t a priority during this visit.” Jackson snorts a huff of air, rolling his eyes at Stiles’ declaration of his lack of manners. “And this is Derek,” he says, clapping the older man on the hand that is wrapped around his waist. “He’s my boyfriend.”

As Stiles says the last part of his sentence, there is a challenge in his voice. Eye contact between Bruce and Stiles is established as quickly as he has spoken, and the young man awaits a sign from his newly discovered father. Bruce doesn’t know what to say or do in response, mainly because Stiles dropped a verbal bomb on him, and partially because he doesn’t know what else to do than nod dumbly.

“I’m glad for you,” says Bruce, although the words burn his throat and tongue all the while he says them. Stiles doesn’t let up on his staring, though, seemingly looking for something that he can’t distinguish from the words Bruce just spoke.

Jackson heaves another sigh, loud enough for all the occupants in the room to hear without any problems. “In all honesty, Stilinski, what the actual Hell is going on?” Lydia mirrors his statement with a perfectly raised brow, and Derek turns to his boyfriend with a scowl on his face.

A nervous laugh bubbles from Stiles’ lips, one hand scratching the back of his neck as he avoids answering his friend’s question. There is no dodging this one, though, with every single pair of eyes directed at him, and him alone. There is no Thor to help him get out of this one, although Stiles does try to establish contact with the Norse God, albeit in vain.

If Bruce had any doubts about his son being able to handle the pressure, then the dam breaks like a storm has smashed it to pieces and scattered it across all fifty two states. “Bruce Banner is my biological father!” Stiles squeaks it - actually squeaks it. Natasha damn near jumps from fright at the unnaturally high pitch of his voice, and Bruce flinches where he stands. (Okay, so Natasha twitches, but that is about as much of a jumpscare as one can get out of a Red Room educated assassin).

There are equal parts disbelief and equal parts mirth in the faces of Stiles’ friends. Lydia smiles, lips pulled up in the perfect facial expression as though she has known the moment she met them both face to face. Jackson is a bit more hesitant, his gaze flickering between the two of them, and then his nose flares as he draws in a deep breath and comes to some sort of conclusion. Derek tugs Stiles closer to himself, the two nearly appearing to be attached at the hip given their closeness. His face doesn’t portray his feelings, but there is confusion brewing somewhere in him.

“Okay,” says Derek after a while. All three teenagers relax visibly as the older man doesn’t take any other action, nor responds in any other fashion than the faintest of interests. Stiles squeezes the hand of the older man a bit tighter, the skin becoming white as a grateful smile stretches itself over the skin of his face.

“Just like that?” Asks Bruce, disbelief echoing and rendering his own words hollow and strange. “No one is going to object the improbability of the two us meeting in a city as large as New York? No one is objecting the fact that just like that I’m Stiles Father?” Something green and angry stirs just below his surface, simmering like a pot on a stove, but a brief touch on his shoulder from Natasha calms him down.

“Look, no offense, but coming from Beacon Hills, we’ve dealt with weirder shit.” Says Jackson. The fact that it doesn’t come off sounding like a joke is all the more infuriating, if not incredibly frightening to think that these young people, all four of them, have dealt with things far beyond the usual spectrum of weird.

“Besides,” interjects Lydia. “I’m quite certain the good Sheriff is still Stiles’ dad, no matter your shared biology with him. It’s not a position you just get. In our lives, a trust like that is earned over years of saving each others’ lives.” Bruce can’t answer or object that observation. It’s awfully clear to see in the way that all of them hold themselves, as if ready to either fight or run at a moment’s notice.

Bruce drops down on the couch, hands rubbing over his face as he contemplates the mess that is his life. Tony joins him and deposits a glass of something awfully good tasting in his hand. It’s alcoholic, no doubt, giving the obvious earliness of the day, but Bruce can’t bring himself to care.

The rest of the Avengers and the younger people join them on the couch, the furniture dipping and conforming to accommodate all of them. “I’d like to try, though,” says Stiles, out of the blue, and Bruce wonders if he has missed part of a conversation.

“What?”

Stiles shrugs, sinking into Derek’s side. “I’d like to give it a try, you know, getting to know you. Family is important to all of us - family means  _ Pack _ .”

The concept is still strange and vastly foreign to anything Bruce has ever encountered, but the offer reaches a part of him and warms it in a way that the alcohol in his hand can’t. “Why, though? Not that I’m complaining, I’m simply curious.”

A darkness flickers over Derek’s face, brief and short, so fast that if Bruce hadn’t been paying attention he knows he would have missed it. “Family doesn’t come easy to any of us, and the ones that we have left are to be protected at all costs. We have already lost too many just trying to survive Beacon Hills.”

Tony frowns. “If Beacon Hills is the problem, then why not just move away from there?” A broken sort of laugh escapes from Lydia, her face appearing all the more gaunt and haunted than Bruce had noticed before. Trapped in a memory, Bruce has no doubt of that.

Jackson tugs his girlfriend closer to himself, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Beacon Hills is our territory. If we leave, then more people would die because then there would be no one to keep away the monsters of the world.”

It strikes Bruce, only then, that the two newcomers sitting on the same couch as himself are werewolves. The behaviour of both Derek and Jackson is possessive in nature, and the constant vigilance could be described as the behaviour of a predator who knows it might be hunted down by rivals at any given time of the day.

“Beacon Hills might be a shit hole to be in, but it’s our territory, and we protect what is ours. Sure, we get into a lot of trouble, and every adventure isn’t as fun as someone might think of the supernatural, but it’s all we have.” Says Stiles, leaving no room for argument.

Thor leans closer, his voice for once keeping an indoor volume and sounding all the more like a whisper than anything else Bruce has ever heard him say. “Tell me of these brave adventures, Son of Banner, Human amongst Wolves.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've read practically every other combination of 'Stiles is somehow related to the Avengers' but no one ever seemed to use Brucie. So this was some sort of horrible brain fart that came out of that thought. Oh, joy.


End file.
